Hard Truths
by thosedarndursleys
Summary: A hard question leads to an even harder realization on Harry's part.


**A/N: Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story! If you have a spare minute, please leave a review or send me a PM with your thoughts. I really appreciate all of the feedback that I receive! On a more official note, this was written for round 8 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition's 5th season. My prompt for this round was Kage Kitsune's headcanon: "Harry manages to fall in love with Tom Riddle." For judging purposes, the final word count for this story is 912.**

Hard Truths

The Third Year Gryffindor boys were currently lounging in their common room, shooting the breeze and ignoring the homework that their professors had assigned them earlier that day. It was now just after 9 p.m., and the lads sat cross-legged on two of the beds, playing Truth or Dare because let's be honest-you're never too old or too masculine for a good game of Truth or Dare.

Harry sat next to Neville on his four-poster; Ron was tucked into the window sill separating the two of them from Seamus and Dean, who were sprawled out on Seamus' bed. The boys had just recovered from their laughter after learning that Dean had once convinced Oliver Wood that he would fly faster if he shaved his legs. The older boy had ended up paying a visit to Madame Pomfrey the morning of the match. He'd needed a cream to relieve the itching just long enough to compete. Now, it was Dean's turn to ask a question, and he immediately honed in on Harry.

"Harry," he asked after catching his breath, "truth or dare?"

"Truth," Harry yawned, too lazy to get up from his spot on the bed to complete whatever task that the boy would no doubt assign him if he chose a dare.

Dean was quiet for a few moments before his eyes lit up. He leaned forward and raised a brow. "Have you ever questioned your sexuality?"

The question was met with silence and a few hesitant glances. Sure, each of the boys had fancied someone at one point or another, but at the age of thirteen, they were still reluctant to talk about it for the most part. Ron cocked his head to the side, and Neville lowered his gaze. Dean looked genuinely curious, however, and as soon as Harry opened his mouth, all eyes were on him.

Harry, for his part, took in a deep breath and fiddled with a loose thread on his pajama pants as he collected his thoughts. Finally, after biding his time for as long as possible, he lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck.

"Yeah, I have."

Ron jolted in his seat and Dean's eyes widened.

"What? Mate, you never told me that!"

"When?"

"With who?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders at the rapid-fire questions and let out a quiet "It just never came up, I guess," before shaking his head and looking to Seamus. "Truth or dare?"

After an awkward bout of silence, the game continued on, the other boys taking the hint that Harry didn't want to discuss the matter any further. With one more round of questions behind them the group decided to call it a night, and each boy made it back to their respective beds.

"You alright, mate?" Ron asked as he settled in. Harry had been rather quiet since his confession, though none of the boys had brought it up since.

"Yeah," Harry answered. "Just tired s'all. See you in the morning, yeah?"

Ron nodded before letting out a wide-mouthed yawn. "Night, mate."

"Night."

* * *

Harry's mind couldn't help but wander as he sat in class the next day. The previous evening's game kept forcing its way into his thoughts, and he honestly didn't know what to think. Up until Dean had asked his question, Harry never would have thought that he had questioned his sexuality. He had hardly even fancied anyone-it wasn't as if he'd had much time for it with the near-death experiences that have haunted him for the last two years. When Harry had gone to offer a flippant answer, however, he knew that he couldn't.

At his desk, Harry raked a hand through his hair and attempted to look interested in whatever Professor Flitwick was saying, but that was becoming increasingly difficult as his mind continued to reel.

He had stayed up for hours the previous night, trying to pinpoint the exact moment that he began to question it. It hadn't taken long to figure out, of course. Even among the madness that was his second year, Harry knew when it had happened. Just because was obvious, however, didn't mean that Harry wanted to admit it; that was the part that had taken a bit of time.

Harry could remember spending hours during the previous year cooped up in the Library, writing notes and anxiously waiting for the near-instant responses. He could remember clutching the journal to his chest whenever someone walked by, like a child who's stolen a treat and knows that they're about to get caught. Harry had loved the excitement of those one-on-one exchanges, had loved learning about the writer's time at Hogwarts and spending entire evenings talking about his classes and whatever else was on his mind. Harry had loved learning about him, or at least who Harry had thought he was.

Harry nearly vomited at the thought. He was mental. Psycho. Absolute garbage, if he was being honest about himself. He, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived had loved having Tom Riddle's undivided attention. He had loved the unconditional understanding and empathy that had been a constant in his life during those weeks. Harry hated himself for it, but he had loved Tom's manipulation.

Harry could feel a brick forming in his stomach and bile inch its way up the back of his throat. He had loved Tom Riddle.

And to be honest, this led to more than Harry questioning his sexuality; it led to him questioning his sanity.


End file.
